Journey down Nightmare street

Yesterday, a friend who lives in New Jersey and was witness to the fury of Hurricane Sandy, put up some pictures of the aftermath of the hurricane on her FaceBook profile. As I was going through those, I couldn't help but remember another horrific tale of destruction that I had come across, (what now seems) ages back. Today 13 years later, those horrifying scenes are still as vivid in my memory as if they happened just a few days back.

I had written this note some weeks back, as a record for myself. Today I decided to share it here .... 

Journey Down Nightmare Street

It was 1999. 

The day, 29th October. 

That was the day a super cyclone, with wind speeds of over 250 kms per hour, hit my home state, Orissa. My family was living in our home town, Bhubaneswar (the capital of Orissa) when the storm struck. 

Those were the dark days before the Internet and mobile revolution. The telephones being out of order, a couple of panic stricken days passed before I finally learnt that my parents and sister were safe. As soon as the train services recommenced, I decided to get on the first train back home. I still remember that journey as if it happened yesterday. 

Like every other day, the platform at New Delhi Railway station that day too was bursting at the seams. But something was different. There was no shoving, no shouting, no boorish lack of courtesy one expects from the Delhiwallahs. When the train finally pulled into the station, there were a few coaches missing, including the one I was supposed to be on. But even then; even when each person’s need to rush to their near and dear ones, was so great, there was no rushing to claim a seat before someone else could. People rallied and helped each other, offering to share seats. That day, we were all kindred souls, subdued by shock, bound together by a tragedy of immense proportions. 

An elderly gentleman very kindly shared his seat with me for the next 12 hours and even requested the ticket collector on my behalf to find me a seat when one was vacated by a passenger getting off in one of the subsequent stations. 

The train took a circuitous route, so it was difficult to gauge exactly how far we were from Bhubaneswar. Even before I looked out, I instinctively knew we were getting close. Slowly, a hush had fallen over the train, punctuated often by gasps of horror. 

The view had changed. Train tracks and electric posts lay twisted like mere twigs snapped by an enormous, immensely powerful hand. Huge trees lay uprooted and dead cattle were strewn all over the countryside. Soon, after the dead cows and goats, came dead people, floating like little rag dolls in pools of water. 

Our little town looked battered and bruised, as if it had spent a traumatic, violent night with a drunk, angry husband. Buildings were decimated into rubble as if a gigantic foot had stomped all over them. 

Once home, I heard stories of the "wind roaring like an angry sea" through the night; of our neighbour's coconut tree falling and missing our house by mere inches; of asbestos roof on our attic and a heavy wooden table in our garden flying away like mere feathers; of my mother and sister spending 2 nights awake, mopping up the spray that gushed in, despite the closed doors and windows; of people living on plain rice and papaya from the trees in their garden for the next few days as it was month end and most had run out of supplies; and of my dad reading the Hanuman chalisa and praying to every God he knew, begging the Almighty to keep them safe. 

All these were but a child's tale compared to the devastation the storm left in its wake - official estimates declared 9800 dead, 275,000 homes destroyed and 1.67 million left homeless. 2.5 million cattle perished and 5 million farmers lost their livelihood. 

And these are just the estimates of the destruction caused by the storm alone. Winter was around the corner causing many more to perish from cold, starvation, hunger, disease and due to callousness of Govt. babus who were busy selling relief supplies to fill their pockets instead of handing out aid where it was needed the most. 

Today, 13 yrs later, I still cannot help but shudder when I think of the unfortunate millions whose lives were shattered by this calamity. And as I offer a silent prayer of gratitude for being spared, I cannot suppress that tiny pang of guilt; guilt for not having done enough to help those affected; guilt for being lucky and guilt for not always appreciating just how lucky we are ….

For this post, I decided to use a picture of one of my favourite works of art; The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Hokusai, one of the most beautiful depictions of Man Vs Nature. (This is a print of the same I bought from the British Museum.) 

While Hokusai's landscape is dominated by Nature's unabated fury, in the shape of a giant claw about to come crashing down on a group of fishermen in tiny boats; I like to see this work of art as a representation of the invincible human spirit; apparent in the men in those tiny boats, clinging on, fighting on, with every breath, every ounce of energy; not giving in, not giving up, fighting on irrespective of how big or how helpless the battle seems to be...

Each time I look at it, it makes me believe that the human spirit is far stronger, far more enduring than we can imagine, and will emerge triumphant against every impediment, every misfortune, every tragedy and every calamity, no matter how gigantic or formidable or devastating it is....